


Never Have I Ever (Wanted To Kiss An Apostate)

by agent_of_mischief



Series: Game nights at The Hanged Man [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Accidentally slut shaming Anders, Drinking Games, Drunkenness, Feelings Realization, Friendship, Hawke has foot in mouth syndrome, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age), Team Fluff, Team as Family, im sorry but they get shitfaced, matchmakers varric and isabela, non graphic throwing up, past Anders/Isabela - Freeform, slightly jealous hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25792558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_of_mischief/pseuds/agent_of_mischief
Summary: “I understand that you weren't here to see Blondie drunk last time, but he’s about as threatening as a kitten,” Varric reassured.“And as cuddly and adorable,” added Isabela with a sage nod.Hawke was surprised to see Anders’ face flush lightly at the comments, even as he felt his own heating up at the mental image. He was even more surprised when the mage leaned forward, clapping his hands together and speaking up for everyone at the table to hear. “So, are we doing this or not?”At Hawke's insistence the whole team gathers at the Hanged Man for regular drinking nights. During one of those nights Anders teaches everyone a Grey Warden drinking game, and in the process he reveals a side of him that most of the group had not been aware of, which in turn leads a certain rogue to a shocking realization.
Relationships: Anders & Isabela (Dragon Age), Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders/Male Hawke, Hawke & Varric Tethras, Isabela & Varric Tethras
Series: Game nights at The Hanged Man [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938703
Comments: 18
Kudos: 52





	Never Have I Ever (Wanted To Kiss An Apostate)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set at the start of act 2, during the fourth year after the expedition. I don't have a Dragon Age fic beta yet, not to mention that I am not used to writing past tense, but I felt it fit the narrative style of the game itself so here we are. I hope I have no big glaring errors. This is my first work for this fandom, and even though I knew the ship I'm going with is Handers, it started as just me wanting to write the whole team bonding and being the family of idiots they are, and certain friendships that give me life like Anders & Isabela, and then the pining became stronger. So it may not be as shippy as most stuff, but its honest worm.

Hawke knew bringing everyone together like that was going to be fraught. After three years of working together, his group of dear friends and companions had developed camaraderie and various friendships outside of Hawke’s influence. But there were still those among them that had a hard time sharing a space, especially when it didn’t involve fighting for dear life against two dozen raiders or Carta thugs. It was also why Hawke had decided it was important to hold these drinking nights at the Hanged Man that he made sure, using whatever means necessary in true rogue fashion, that every one of his friends attended. They had learned to fight together, trust each other with their lives, it was high time they also learned to actually relax together in the rare opportunities they had to do so. Or that was Hawke’s plan, at least.

“Funny that, you weren’t so concerned with the inherent evils of magic when it was knitting your spleen back in place last week.” Anders’ voice had a familiar haughty edge as he responded to what must had been a provocation from Fenris.

Hawke sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“I am less concerned with your healing, more so with the blood mage that was responsible for me getting injured like that in the first place,” Fenris bit back.

Hawke was of half a mind to congratulate them for the civility of their barbs; when they’d first met their arguments had been rather more venomous. Of course that was still always a possibility waiting around the corner, so Hawke prepared to interject and break them apart before they headed down that path.

“You ingrate! Not every-”

“Anders,” Isabela interrupted, and she was rewarded by not one but two pairs of narrowed eyes glaring daggers at her.

Hawke resisted the urge to laugh. Sometimes getting between those two while fighting was the best way to turn them into a united front, comrades in their spite. The Maker knew, if it happened more often there might be no power in Thedas that could stand a chance against the sheer bullheadedness of them combined. Except, it seemed, for a Rivaini pirate with a penchant for flirting with death.

“Sorry to interrupt your weird foreplay, but some of us came here to have fun tonight.”

“I don’t see how I’m stopping you.” Anders’ voice involuntarily softened despite his scowl. Hawke found himself wondering when he’d started to pick up those imperceptible shifts in the mage’s mood and demeanor.

“Well, I was hoping you’d rather help me,” Isabela said with a wink, leaning into Anders’ space.

Hawke tried to ignore the twisting knot tightening in the pit of his stomach. He _knew_ Isabela, and she was like that with everyone. Why would Anders be an exception? Anyone with a working set of eyes would be inclined to flirt with the mage, as far as Hawke was concerned.

“I’d tell you to get a room, but you would just commandeer mine again,” grumbled Varric.

 _Again?_ Hawke coughed and sputtered, as he had chosen an inopportune moment to take a swig from his ale.

“Are you alright, Hawke?” Merrill’s concerned voice drew the attention of the few at the table that had missed his clumsy display.

“Fine,” he gasped. “Never better. It went down the wrong way, is all.” 

He looked around to see the faces of his companions relaxing, some returning to their previous conversations. When he looked back to where Isabela was practically draping herself over Anders, he caught the healer’s questioning gaze and had to struggle not to squirm under it. _Maker’s balls, get a hold of yourself Garrett,_ he reprimanded himself, tearing his eyes away.

“As I was about to say before a certain dwarf decided to get everyone’s mind in the gutter,” Isabela started with an expression of mock-insult, “I just wonder if you could teach us any more of those Grey Warden drinking games, it would be fun now that we are all here.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” exclaimed Merrill.

“Please don’t make me have to arrest any of you for being drunk and disorderly on my night off,” Aveline groused.

“No promises,” said Hawke, cracking a teasing grin at her. He felt himself relax, warmth spreading in his chest as he looked around the table full of people that meant the world to him. He wouldn’t be caught expressing such sentimentality out loud, but it was true all the same.

“Last time I did you turned it into a ‘let’s get Anders drunk’ game instead.” Anders’ voice held no real bitterness, but he threw her a put-upon glare nevertheless.

“It’s not like we get many opportunities to see you in all of your drunken glory, Blondie.” Varric laughed, but Anders’ shoulders fell.

“It’s not entirely my choice,” the mage muttered, his expression darkening.

“Justice?” Hawke leaned over towards Anders, his own voice softer than he’d expected.

Anders looked up at him with wide eyes, as if startled for a moment, and then he nodded. “But it turns out he hates me cheating even more than he hates me drinking, and I could use a few drinks right now,” he declared, replacing his clouded-over expression with one of his patented cocksure grins.

Hawke could see right through the veneer of false cheer and confidence, but he decided not to push it, especially not in front of everyone.

“Yes, novel idea, get the abomination drunk, no way that could go wrong,” Fenris muttered warily.

Hawke frowned, but he trusted Anders, he trusted the healer’s control and his knowledge of his own limits. Still, he couldn’t entirely blame Fenris for not finding it as easy to do, not with everything he knew about the warrior’s past.

“I understand that you weren't here to see Blondie drunk last time, but he’s about as threatening as a kitten,” Varric reassured.

“And as cuddly and adorable,” added Isabela with a sage nod.

Hawke was surprised to see Anders’ face flush lightly at the comments, even as he felt his own heating up at the mental image. He was even more surprised when the mage leaned forward, clapping his hands together and speaking up for everyone at the table to hear. “So, are we doing this or not?”

After a general murmur of agreement, some of them sounding more enthusiastic than others, Anders grinned again. It looked more genuine this time, unguarded in a way that was extremely rare to see, and Hawke felt his breath catch in his throat.

“The rules are simple,” Anders started explaining. “We all get a drink and go around making statements beginning with ‘never have I ever’. Whoever has done what the speaker states has to drink. The objective is-”

“Get Anders drunk?” asked Aveline, raising an eyebrow. She seemed pleased at the snickers her comment elicited.

“Maker's arse,” huffed Anders, “the objective is to get everyone but yourself drunk. And just putting it out there, some of you might want a functional healer at hand after drinking what I’m pretty sure is the stuff I use as disinfectant at the clinic.” He picked up Isabela's cup and sniffed the content with exaggerated suspicion.

“You really used to be more fun,” Isabela teased, nudging Anders’ shoulder.

The snippy retort that Hawke expected never came. Something bitter and ugly reared its head in his chest when Anders simply rolled his eyes and gave her a nearly imperceptible but soft smile.

“What kind of statements?” asked Fenris.

Hawke startled. He didn’t expect anything more than begrudging participation from the elf, but then again he’d seen his competitive side on the cards table. Fenris had been especially fond of absolutely destroying Anders at Wicked Grace, until he’d realized that he actually didn’t feel like taking the little coin the healer had for his clinic, but neither did he feel like coming up with elaborate excuses to turn it down every single time. In the end he’d simply declared that winning against someone that bad was beneath him.

Anders was probably similarly surprised, as it took him a moment of staring at the elf to process the question and respond. “Um, well, anything goes really. Unless someone wants to put a restriction before we start, the game is supposed to be for fun after all.”

“I know what I want to find out,” Isabela said with a grin when nobody spoke up.

It made Hawke realize that this kind of game was as good a way for sussing out secrets as it was for getting your friends drunk. As much as you could hope to when relying on the honour system, of course. Still, Hawke didn't plan to lie, no matter how good he was at it.

“I’m sure you do, Rivaini,” said Varric, his own eyes alight at the prospect. “Should we refill everyone’s cup and get started then?”

In the end they agreed that they didn’t all have to drink the same thing, as long as it was something strong enough to warrant no more than one hearty sip for each round. There was a buzz of excitement all around the table; this was no one’s first drink for the night, and it seemed spirits were high enough to allow pairs like Aveline and Isabela or Fenris and Anders to eagerly participate in a more friendly kind of competition. _Maybe it is a good way for them to channel a bit of their frustrations,_ Hawke dared to think.

Since Anders had been the one to introduce the game, the group automatically deferred to him once drinks had been procured and everyone was settled. Hawke could see that the mage enjoyed the attention, as well as being the one giving the orders while Hawke stepped down and consigned the role for once. Andraste knew, Hawke enjoyed it too; a pleasant kind of shiver ran down his spine at the realization and all the implications that came with it.

“Who wants to go first? We can go around in a circle from there,” said Anders.

“Why don’t you do the honours, Blondie?” Varric suggested.

Anders gave an easy shrug. There was something enticingly calculating in his eyes as he scanned every face, and Hawke could swear the mage’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than the others.

“Let’s start easy,” Anders finally said, drawing his lingering gaze away. “Never have I ever been on a pirate ship.”

Isabela laughed good-naturedly before taking a large swig of her rum. A few mouths fell open when Fenris followed suit.

“You’re full of surprises,” Varric commented.

Hawke pondered on that for a moment; there was a lot he still didn’t know about the elf’s past, but he knew it was a long way to travel from Tevinter to Kirkwall. Maybe one day Fenris would trust them enough to share the whole tale of his escape.

That day was not going to be today, as Fenris didn’t seem too happy under the scrutiny. “Mage, if you wanted to get to Isabela you could have gone with ‘lost a pirate ship’,” he deadpanned.

Isabela gave him a scandalized expression, while Anders let out a little snort. Hawke figured stranger things happen at sea, but he still watched the interaction with wide eyes.

Isabela was sitting to Anders’ right, and there was vengeance in her eyes when her turn came right after him. “Never have I ever been a Grey Warden.”

“Thought there was stuff you wanted to find out,” Anders teased before taking a ridiculously small and delicate sip on purpose.

“And I thought you were supposed to make as many people as possible drunk, not just each other,” Hawke said, stalling for his turn and looking around the table for inspiration. His eyes were inevitably drawn back to his left side, where a certain mage was leaning back on his chair, fixing him with an expectant gaze. “Never have I ever set someone on fire,” he blurted.

“I don’t wanna know,” mumbled Aveline as Anders and Isabela looked at each other, clinked their cups together, and took a swig in unison.

“Pirate,” said Isabela, and she actually winked at the guard captain.

“Apostate.” Anders shrugged.

“I prefer nature magic myself,” Merrill piped up.

Hawke winced as he caught Fenris’ glare. To make things worse, it was his turn.

“Never have I ever practiced _blood magic,”_ he spat out. His eyes left a harassed looking Merrill timidly lifting her goblet, and zeroed in on Anders instead.

“What, did you expect a confession?,” The mage bristled, the good humour leaving his expression. “How many times must I state that I abhor blood magic?”

Merrill shrank further towards herself at the sheer venom in Anders’ words. Hawke himself could never find it in him to berate her, even when some of her actions were more than a little questionable. He had even thought Anders too cruel with her at times, but he could not disagree with his reasoning. Even Fenris agreed with him on this one, after all, and that said something.

“Alright now, no need to go there,” said Hawke in what he hoped was a placating tone.

“May I remind everyone that the game’s actual purpose is not ruffling Blondie’s feathers?” Varric gave Merrill a wink, and she brightened up when she caught the joke. Fenris actually let out a chuckle, and Garrett Hawke thanked the Maker, not for the first time, for Varric Tethras.

“It’s getting him piss drunk,” the dwarf added. “Never have I ever been to the Deep Roads.”

Hawke finally drank, taking a larger swig than strictly necessary. As did Anders, Varric, and Fenris, who had had his first venture down there during their expedition.

“Never have I ever been in the city guard,” said Aveline, and she lifted her own tankard to her lips.

“You really don’t get how the game works." Isabela couldn’t miss the opportunity to nettle Aveline.

“On the contrary, I am just way too sober for it right now,” Aveline replied, staring defiantly back at the pirate.

Isabela laughed, low and warm. “That I can respect.”

Merrill looked around nervously, not having come up with something during everyone else's turns. She eyed Anders intently, obviously having taken Varric’s words to heart, and the healer was already lifting his cup in defeat when her eyes lit up and she spoke up. “Never have I ever wanted to kiss someone in this room.”

Hawke watched Anders’ cup freeze midway to his lips at the same time as he tightened his hand around his own. A tense kind of silence descended over them that Isabela promptly broke after a few seconds.

“Oh, where do I even start. Easy on the eyes and nugshit crazy is my type, and I am not ashamed to admit it,” she declared before taking a long drink.

Merrill herself took a small sip, her face thoughtful, which sparked a bit of curiosity in Hawke, but he didn’t spare her more than a fleeting glance. Instead he found himself staring at Anders with the intense focus he usually reserved for battle, where finding his foe’s weakness before they found his was all that kept him alive. Or it had been, before he had Anders watching his back with his healing at the ready. The mage met his gaze, eyes alight with a familiar spark of defiance, but impossible to read beyond that. For a few heartbeats they stayed like that, locked in a strange standstill of their own making.

Anders was the one to break the moment. Without taking his eyes off Hawke, he brought his cup all the way to his lips and knocked back the last dregs of alcohol remaining in it. Hawke didn’t realize he had been mirroring him until the burn of the strong dwarven spirit hit his palate. He felt a trail of heat travel from his throat to his stomach, not solely because of the liquor. A treacherous blush crept up his neck towards his face as he fought to maintain a neutral expression.

He thought he was doing a good job at it too, being a rogue and everything. Until Anders, the blighted mage that was going to be the death of him _,_ chased the last drops of alcohol from his lips with his tongue before curling them up in an honest-to-Andraste smirk. Hawke’s breath hitched, and he was sure magic had to be responsible for the sudden increase of temperature in the room. _A mage definitely was._

Anders didn’t take his eyes off him as he said: “I guess the game is starting in earnest.”

* * *

Hawke’s head buzzed pleasantly, his sharp senses dulling around the edges with every sip of whatever miscellaneous liquor was in his cup. He didn't mind the intoxication, even as part of him was always loathe to abandon his full alertness. Nor did he mind the increasing amount of times he found himself having to drink, even as the statements began to slowly but inevitably descend into risque territory. His long and somewhat exciting history of sexual exploits was not something he was going to boast about, but neither was he ashamed of it. The thing that really got to Hawke, tugging him towards a million different directions and making him run hot and cold as if in a fever, was how Anders matched him almost drink to drink. Maker's balls, some of the things he drank for not even Hawke himself had done. There were even a few instances where Isabela, who had absolutely committed to the theme and refused to ask non-sexual related questions, managed to only make Anders drink, exempting her much more adventurous self on anatomical semantics.

Hawke wasn’t one to judge someone’s past or someone’s sexual preferences, had he been that kind of person Isabela would had put a dagger through him a long time ago. But it was just _so damn distracting,_ his alcohol addled brain determined to summon mental images to go with every time Anders had to drink, to the point where it was becoming hard to look the, by now blissfully drunk, mage in the eye. That was the other thing, he had heard enough from Isabela and Anders himself to have an image of the mythical beast that was past Anders, before Kirkwall and before Justice. He had already imagined the sort of things he might have gotten up to, this version of Anders that had slightly longer hair, and a preference for ostentatious robes that left way less to the imagination, _and he probably smiled more and didn’t have the almost permanent crease between his eyebrows that someone ought to smooth out-_

“I call bullshit, Blondie. Ancestors, I’d expect this kind of wild brag from the likes of Hawke, not you. But then again, haven’t you been full of surprises tonight.” Varric laughed.

The mention of Hawke’s name drew his attention, interrupting thoughts that were barreling towards nowhere good.

“Hm, why d’ you think it’s a brag?” Anders’ smirk matched his teasing tone, and the whole display could have been called rakish, were he not drink-flushed, his eyes drifting in and out of focus as he occasionally swayed in his seat. No, more than anything he seemed relaxed, _happy_ , and Hawke felt something rattle loose in his chest as he took in the sight.

Anders’ eyes focused enough to meet his, but before Hawke had time to feel bad for staring, Anders lowered his gaze, a small frown appearing on his face. _Is he embarrassed?_ Hawke wondered, but even as he did he knew that wasn’t quite right. No matter how different this Anders was to the one who’d apparently been on a mission to try about everything on the Maker’s green earth at least once, the difference was not a sudden penchant for shame. In fact, even early on in their friendship, when Anders had seemed reserved, it had been obvious that anything resembling shame slid off him like oil on water. Hawke frowned a little himself.

“Humans may not be my type, but I’ve done my research on them and the numbers don’t add up,” said Varric.

“Research is it now?” Hawke said with a grin. _Make a joke here, a quip there, and no one will know you’ve spent the past hour making inappropriate thoughts about the man who’s been single-handedly keeping the lot of us alive in battle._

“I’m an author, Hawke. If you want me to lend you some of it for those cold, lonely Kirkwall nights you should just ask nicely,” Varric retorted.

“Oh, you should give him the one about the pretty apostate and the dashing swashbuckler,” Isabela giggled.

Hawke felt a sudden pang of something strangely aggressive, and he sent Isabela a glare. She didn’t flinch, merely raised an eyebrow at him, but Hawke immediately felt bad. It was not her fault that he could not control his thoughts and his emotional reactions. Sighing, he lowered his head onto his palms, elbows digging into the damp-softened wood of the table.

“Have you done research into the Grey Wardens though?” Anders asked, opting to ignore the previous comments. _Small mercies,_ Hawke figured.

“I mean, it’s a fair trade, what with the taint and all the darkspawn and the lifespan…” he trailed off, a pained twinge in his voice that made Hawke’s head snap up. Anders shook his head, as if to dispel some invisible mist, and he continued with his previous bright expression, “at least we get the famed Grey Warden stamina. So three times is absolutely not a stretch.”

 _Or maybe not, no mercy at all,_ Hawke amended, ignoring his palms to drop his forehead directly onto the wood of the table.

“Hawke, you don’t have to feel bad. It’s not a competition, you know,” Merrill said, in what she probably thought was a reassuring tone.

Hawke snorted at that, some of his frustration slipping in his voice. “I’d hope not, since it turns out I couldn’t hold a candle to our healer.”

No sooner than the words had left his mouth, Hawke knew he’d said the wrong thing. The matching glares he received from Varric and Isabela were more than enough confirmation. But their mild disapproval was something he could live with. Hawke thrived on disapproval. He had turned earning it into an art form, having so many years of practice with Leandra. When he willed himself to look at Anders, though, and he saw the hurt expression on his face even as the mage wouldn’t turn to meet his eye, Hawke wished the stained floor of the Hanged Man would open up and swallow him.

“Andraste’s flaming snatch, I really have been drinking a lot, huh? Unless there’s blood magic involved and that’s why there’s at least two more of each one of you,” Anders suddenly said, the forced nonchalance and cheer in his voice so painfully obvious Hawke wasn’t the only one at the table who winced.

“We keep this up and I’ll die from forgetting how to heal my own alcohol poisoning, ‘n as funny a way to go as that is, I can’t leave the people of Darktown or you lot without a healer, I’m afraid.” Even as he said that he knocked back the not-insubstantial amount of alcohol left in his cup. Then he pushed himself up with the surprising grace of one who has had to walk through several concussions in his life, and he braced himself on the edge of the table.

Hawke’s first instinct was to reach out and try to steady him, but he was afraid he might just send the man stumbling when he inadvertently recoiled from Hawke. He clenched his hands into tight fists on top of his thighs and stayed still.

“Goodnight, everyone. Congratulations for another ‘getting Anders drunk’ win,” the healer slurred, and then he pushed away from the table with a jaunty salute and started walking towards the exit of the pub in unstable steps.

Hawke didn’t have to turn to know that Isabela was glaring daggers at him. _At least she hasn’t drawn any actual daggers yet._

“Rivaini, could you go and make sure he doesn’t get himself stabbed by darktown thugs, or walk face first into a templar, or something?” Varric asked wearily.

Hawke, coward that he was, didn’t look up at her, but he heard her chair scrape violently against the floor as she got up to follow.

“I’ve made a mabari’s breakfast out of things haven’t I?” Hawke muttered miserably.

No one spoke up to object.

* * *

The night breeze felt good against Anders’ flushed face, and for a moment he let himself enjoy it. His head was filled with cotton and the ground lurched this way and that like the deck of a ship caught in a storm, but at least Anders was away from the stifling heat and sour scent of the inside of the Hanged Man. _Away from Hawke’s increasingly intense glares._

A sound embarrassingly close to a whimper tore from his throat, and he stumbled forward, entirely aware of the fact that he was plummeting to the ground. He almost welcomed the embrace of hard packed dirt; maybe it would rattle his foolish brain hard enough for it to start working properly again.

Instead what he got was strong, lithe arms snaking around his middle and holding him up. _Rogue’s arms, but not the right one,_ he mused forlorny as he glanced down at Isabela’s bare, dark skinned forearms wrapped around his chest.

“Whoa there, sweetness, I got you.” Her voice was gentle, and it gave Anders the inexplicable urge to tear up.

“‘m such a fool, Bela,” he whined once the burning in his eyes had been willed away.

At some point she had moved from hauling him up from behind to press at his side, with his left arm thrown over her shoulders and her right tight around his waist, supporting him and slowly steering him down the street. He followed, eager to get as far away from the Hanged Man and the others as possible. He really was such a fool, probably given _everyone_ not just Hawke a reason to lose their respect for him. _Isabela always makes it seem so simple to be open about such things, but no one looks down upon her._

“They wouldn’t dare, if they know what’s good for them,” Isabela interjected.

Anders’ intoxicated thoughts scrambled to a stop in shock. “Did I say that out loud?” he asked, his eyes widening. He felt her shoulders shake in a silent laughter, and he frowned down at his shuffling feet.

“Absolutely, and in the third person. Thought you were actually using me to make excuses to your… passenger,” she said, sounding far too cheerful to Anders for what she’d just implied.

He frowned harder. _Justice._ He’d have a lot of disapproval to pile on him, he was sure, and he was already mentally preparing for the headache. He could count it as a small mercy that the spirit didn’t join in with all the noise in his head right now, even if he knew that that would only last until the fog cleared from his brain.

The words that tumbled out of the mage then even took him by surprise. “Hawke doesn’t hate _you_ for… fo’ being…” Anders trailed off, distracted by the sudden twisting feeling in his stomach. He couldn’t tell if it was the drink or that thought that had caused it, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep its contents down for much longer, and he tried to pull away from Isabela.

She didn’t let go of him, but she seemed to understand the message loud and clear as she helped him to the side of the dusty Lowtown street and eased him to his knees. He proceeded to noisily hurl, his body attempting to purge as much of the alcohol as possible, and she held him throughout it, rubbing a soothing hand on his back and muttering sweet words. When he was done she gently pulled him away from the puddle of sick and offered him a water skin from her belt.

Anders felt a rush of gratitude as he rinsed the worst of the awful taste from his mouth before managing a few weak sips. As his stomach finally settled, he realized his head also regained some semblance of clarity, though the alcoholic haze largely persisted. Apparently, his mind cleared enough for him to feel embarrassed and suddenly wish Isabela would ignore what he’d started saying.

“You can’t really think that Hawke would hate anyone for having a bit of harmless adult fun,” Isabela said gently. 

Anders deflated. _Of course, that’s just my luck._ He shrugged, realizing it didn’t make sense to him either. Wasn’t that why he’d allowed himself to share that kind of thing in the first place? He’d known Isabela or Varric wouldn’t judge him, and he didn’t care what the elf of the guardswoman thought; they already judged him all the time anyway. But he’d felt safe enough to admit that kind of thing in front of Hawke. Maker, he’d even been openly suggestive towards the man, emboldened by the drink and the fact that he hadn’t been met with immediate disgust early on in the game. It wasn’t a case of Hawke being judgemental or prudish, but rather of turning down unwanted attention. Anders made a pained sound in the back of his throat.

“Or think that Hawke could ever hate _you,_ ” added Isabela emphatically.

“He might now,” Anders whined. “He’d be right to.”

All at once he felt a wave of self-loathing that swept away the last dregs of his drunken glow and the happiness the evening had tricked him into experiencing.

“No he wouldn’t,” Isabela said firmly. She stopped them in their tracks and turned Anders to face her. He probably should have been more concerned with the ease with which she manhandled him despite being a full head shorter.

“Hawke is so good to me, and he doesn’t have to be. I shouldn’t be taking advantage an… an’ making him uncomfortable.” Anders’ voice was miserable now, and he avoided looking at Isabela’s face. Neither anger nor pity were welcome right then, and she surely wouldn’t be feeling anything else about him.

“Anders,” Isabela said with a sigh, and then more firmly when he didn’t respond, “Anders, please look at me, love.”

He did, turning his head slowly as if against his own will. But there was nothing but seemingly infinite patience in her expression, that and the kind of softness that looked out of place there. Anders felt his breath catch in his throat; at this point he’d thought that there was no part of Isabela he hadn’t seen bared, so to speak, but even in his state he could recognize the vulnerability of her open expression and understand that it was the kind of thing few people ever got to see.

“Listen here, because I won’t say this again and I won’t be caught dead admitting to having said it in the first place.” She looked into his eyes, as if searching for confirmation of his undivided attention, and continued in a rushed tone. “I spent the last three years wondering what had happened to the Anders I first met, but I have come to realize that whatever it was, a lot of it actually happened long before you and I even met in Denerim. And it has convinced you that you don’t deserve friends or love or anything more than a tumble in the sheets, and I _understand_ what that is like at least.” 

She paused to take a deep breath, eyes closing for just a moment. “Do you even realize how ridiculously brave of you it was to stop running? You spend most of your time here helping people for free, and the rest making sure Hawke and the rest of us don’t die from our own stupidity, and I have watched you give away everything you have to needy strangers and your friends alike, but more than anything to Hawke. And if you still think _you_ are the one that doesn’t deserve _him,_ you're a blighted idiot.”

“I became a Grey Warden only to run away to Kirkwall six months later, so technically I am both _blighted_ and an idiot,” Anders tried to joke, now actively having to suppress a rising sob. He didn’t like how much Isabela’s words affected him, and he didn't dare to admit she might be somewhat right, that he might actually deserve Hawke, or her, or any of his friends.

Isabela rolled her eyes and affectionately elbowed him in the ribs, before taking a thoughtful breath and continuing in a much lighter tone. “And I really didn’t expect it to go this way, otherwise I wouldn’t have kept asking these kind of questions during the game. I thought I was helping you along, bolstering your reputation as a skilled lover in front of Hawke.”

Anders laughed, unable to keep some of the bitterness he felt from it. “From the way Hawke was glaring at first and then wouldn’t even look at me, I’d say that’s the last he’s currently thinking of me. Still, it’s not your fault I decided to make a fool of myself by coming onto Hawke the moment I had a drop of alcohol in me.”

“You thought he was glaring at _you?_ It was me he was reserving the glares for,” Isabela said indignantly.

“So what, he is in fact judging us? Never mind that he drank almost as often…” Anders blushed at the recollection, completely forgetting the point he was about to make, something about hypocrisy and Hawke.

“No, but what I thought was me being an amazing wingwoman to my friend, he mistook for… something else entirely.”

Anders gave her a confused look.

“He thought I was flirting with you.”

“You are, all the time, with me and with everyone else.” Anders still couldn’t see why that could cause a reaction from Hawke. That was _Isabela._

“Well, yes, though I’ve accepted that I can’t compete with the huge torch you have been carrying for Hawke and wouldn’t actually _try_ anything with you.”

“I feel safer already,” Anders teased.

Isabela hip checked him even as she was supporting at least half of his weight. “Well it must have hit a nerve, which I guess is good news for you. Also, the avoiding looking at you bit could be all the furious blushing and stealing furtive glances he was doing.”

“You can’t mean…” Anders’ next words turned into a shocked sputter.

“I can mean. Andraste’s nipple tassels, when Merrill said the thing about kissing for a moment I thought that one of you would get up and drag the other one to one of the pub’s spare rooms, the way you were eye-fucking for like a solid half minute.”

Anders choked on a combination of his own spit and the musty Lowtown air.

Isabela patted his back absentmindedly before continuing. “Then when it didn’t happen I thought we should turn up the heat a bit, that would do it. But Hawke apparently decided to shove his foot in his mouth, even though it was the _last_ thing he wanted shoved in his mouth just then, trust me.”

“Isabela!” Anders tried for a scandalized tone, but he landed somewhere between amused and needy. He would _not_ be drinking again anytime soon.

“You may be the more self aware one between the two of you, but you really can’t read the room at all, can you?” Isabela insisted.

Anders went silent for a long minute, as Isabela guided him down a set of stairs towards the familiar oppressive atmosphere of Darktown.

“You really think there’s a chance that he… I mean that Hawke would feel the same?” Anders finally asked, his voice small.

“You’re _both_ my handsome friends who have, for almost four years now, been turning down my advances to pine after each other instead,” she said solemnly, as she toed the door to Anders’ clinic open and steered him in.

There was another stretch of silence, as she struggled to navigate the dark clinic, and she let out a triumphant whoop when she finally made it to the back room and eased Anders down on his cot. As she leaned over him to help him out of his coat, Anders’ arms reached tentatively to settle around her in a loose embrace.

“You’re a good friend, Bela,” said Anders, emotion cloying in his voice. Part of him expected her to pull away, and he felt warmth flood him when she squeezed back.

“Well, don’t let word get out, I have a reputation to uphold,” she muttered before letting go.

Satisfied, Anders let her slip his coat free from his shoulders and he fell back onto the cot, suddenly all too aware of his bone-deep exhaustion as well as the sweet lull of inebriation. He was already drifting to the fade when she closed the door of his room behind him and snuck out of the clinic.

* * *

Hawke squirmed in his chair, his eyes fluttering between the open window- _first floor of the Hanged Man, hardly a big drop-_ and the door to Varric’s room. The last was a non-option, shut but not locked but with Varric standing between him and sweet freedom. _The window it is._

“Hawke, you’re arse over tits drunk, and when you land on your handsome face because of it there won’t be putting it back together because our healer is even worse right now,” said Varric, as if he’d read Hawke’s thoughts. Hawke had long now suspected that this was in fact the case, part of Varric’s secret writer powers and why he always won at cards. That or he was the first dwarven blood mage.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Varric” he said with a sweet smile.

Varric gave him an unimpressed look, and remained standing, which didn’t put him above a sitting Hawke’s eye-level, but it still had its desired effect, as Hawke squirmed even harder under the scrutiny.

“Speaking of, care to explain what was _all that_ about?”

“Why don’t you have a seat? Can I get you something? I want you to feel at home here,” Hawke quipped, deciding that if he pretended not to hear the question he wouldn't have to answer it.

“I can bring Fenris and Aveline to weigh in if you don’t feel like talking,” threatened Varric.

“Maker’s breath, Varric, no need to assemble an inquisition. I think I’ll take the private interrogation- I mean chat.”

Varric was even less impressed by that, but after a moment he sighed and pulled a chair across from Hawke. “You know I am your friend, and that’s the only reason I am pushing this,” the dwarf said in a softer tone.

“Oh hush, you do it for the gossip, to get those juicy story ideas,” Hawke said with a snort.

Varric smiled. “I have been considering venturing into romance next, ‘Swords and Shields’ I think I’ll call it, though maybe I should have saved ‘Hard in Hightown’ for that. Isabela seems to think so.”

At the mention of Isabela’s name, Hawke couldn’t help but wince. He had no doubt Varric caught it, being nowhere near as drunk as the rest of them had been by the time Anders’ awkward departure had urged them to call it a night. _Damn his dwarven constitution._

“Look, Varric, I actually have no idea what’s gotten into me,” said Hawke with a sigh, rubbing at his eyes.

“Pardon my Orlesian, Hawke, but that’s a load of shit,” the dwarf said. “You act like a blushing maiden all night, glare daggers at poor Rivaini for no reason, and then decide to top it off by being an asshole to Blondie because, what, he used to get laid a lot in the Circle and the Wardens?”

Hawke winced at his friend’s rather all encompassing tally of every single stupid thing he did and said that evening, not just the highlights. “Of course I don’t have anything against that,” he protested, raising his hands in a surrendering motion, “nor do I have a weird antagonism thing like Merrill implied.”

Varric nodded, his jaw set. “Good, because honestly after three solid years of doom and gloom it was the first time I heard Blondie speak about a pleasant constant in that blighted past of his, and the Hawke I know wouldn't begrudge a friend that.”

Even though this was really not what it had been about, Hawke felt as if Fenris had plunged a fist into his ribs and was squeezing his heart at Varric’s words. He hadn’t even considered that, or how he may come off as. He was just… What? _What was I even thinking?_

“Lucky for you,” said Varric, his voice softening as he took in Hawke’s anguished face, “I am pretty sure I do know what it was about even if you won’t admit it to yourself.”

Hawke’s eyes snapped up. Normally there’d be a retort, a deflection, but this was Varric. A friend, a _true friend_ that cared for him, and his hard words were not meant as a weapon to hurt him. Maybe a weapon to protect Anders, if he were to judge from some of the looks he’d gotten from everyone earlier, but Maker knew that was also what Hawke wanted and if it took their friends figuratively slapping some sense into him, well, he could take it. He didn’t want to see Anders make that pained expression again, especially not while knowing he was the one responsible.

“I didn’t mean to hurt Anders, I was overwhelmed and I can’t keep my stupid mouth shut but I wouldn’t dream of… thinking less of him or Isabela or anyone because of something like that,” Hawke said, the words tumbling in a frenzy from his lips. He really felt wretched about the whole thing, and it must have shown because the next thing he knew Varric was leaning forward to pat his knee.

“Hey, I know. Everyone knows and no one will hold this against you,” said the dwarf, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze. “Least of all Blondie, he’s incapable of staying mad at you.”

“I’m mad at me,” Hawke mumbled, shaking his head.

“Self pity doesn’t suit you, Hawke, and we already have our hands full with training it out of Broody and Blondie.”

Hawke snorted, some of the tension ebbing away from his chest. _Thank the Maker for Varric fucking Tethras._

“Getting past the whole unpleasantness there at the end, watching you grow increasingly jealous of Rivaini, while the poor girl was doing her best to hand you your mage on a platter with a neat little bow on top was a real treat,” Varric pondered.

Hawke wanted to say too many indignant things all at once, and the rush of words ended up coming to a standstill when he instead choked and sputtered on air.

“You’re not as subtle as you might think, Hawke, at this point everyone but Blondie knows about your big ol’ crush on him.”

Hawke’s mouth fell open, Varric’s outlandish words ringing painfully true after the evening’s events.

“Maker’s arse, everyone but Blondie _and_ you, should I say?” Varric looked about as shocked as Hawke felt.

“I mean, I have _thought_ about it in the past. How could I not? Anders is an attractive man, and that happens to be exactly what I’m interested in,” Hawke protested. “And tonight I was shown an… unexpected side of him and there were a _lot_ of very descriptive ‘never have I ever’s and the mental images were… distracting,” he finished lamely.

“Uh-huh,” Varric said.

“And Isabela flirts, it’s her thing, but she was practically _draped_ over Anders specifically and she was being all in-your-face about it, and it’s probably a bit uncomfortable for everyone.” Hawke crossed his arms in front of him, completely aware that he was being petulant.

“Yes because we’re all chantry brothers and sisters in our little ragtag group,” Varric said.

“And anyway, the way Isabela talks about her partners, there’s nothing wrong with that, and I already know that she and Anders have… been together in the past, but I don’t think that’s the kind of thing Anders should…” Hawke sighed warily, measuring his words before he tried again.

“After tonight I have learned I shouldn’t assume, and she might have hidden sides as well as anyone. She has definitely been a good friend, and it’s not like I speak my affections openly either, so I shouldn’t presume. I just think Anders should be with someone who truly appreciates him as more than a pretty face. Who’s there for him, and understands his situation, and won’t constantly demand things of him because Anders is the kind of person who keeps giving to those he cares about and someone could take advantage even unwittingly. Sometimes even I worry I’ve done it as his friend.” Hawke knew he should be more chagrined at the emotion colouring his voice, but he'd drunk a lot and he had already made such a fool of himself so what was a little more? At least it was just Varric here, and Varric didn't judge that sort of thing.

“I just want him to be happy, like he was earlier tonight. I really was glad to see him like that, even if you couldn’t tell with the way I went and ruined it.” Hawke sighed, burying his face in his palms. He almost felt the stupid urge to cry. _Definitely weird dwarf blood magic._

“Hawke, you are a great friend to him, and to all of us. You truly care and the same you said about Blondie giving too much can be said about you. You’re not fooling _me_ with your whole roguish act.”

“I _am_ a rogue, Varric,” Hawke retorted.

“See now, I’d say less of that sass would go a long way, but it does seem to work on your apostate,” Varric teased.

 _My apostate._ Hawke felt his face heating up and, sure, they were friends, and he cared a lot about Anders but this was going a bit further. He raked his brain, as far back as he could remember in the past few years ever since he’d met Anders, in an attempt to pinpoint if indeed there was a time when his feelings took a turn. It was hard to discern a specific moment in time, a perceptible shift, but there were many little things that he found himself looking at in a different light.

He knew his physical attraction to Anders had been there pretty much from the start, he even admitted as much. But the frequency with which the mage had tended to occupy his thoughts in that capacity was beyond how much one usually thought about their attractive friends. Worrying about Anders’ safety also felt like a constant; he could not very well remember a time when he didn’t worry about the mage, but that could extend to all of his close friends. And who wouldn’t want to seek out Anders’ company, after getting to know him beyond the surface? _Fenris, Aveline, Sebastian,_ his mind instantly supplied. Even if Hawke himself couldn’t understand them, he knew as much to be true. And he wasn’t blind to Anders’ faults, not when Anders was the first to often point them out, as if in warning. They just paled in comparison to not only all the good things the healer was, but also to the potential that was there.

So, Anders was his very attractive friend, for whom Hawke cared a lot, and who he wanted to spend more time with and he sometimes thought about kissing when drinking along with their other friends. That was how friendships were sometimes, wasn’t it?

“Andraste, I… I have a crush on Anders,” Hawke finally said, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

“Congratulations on figuring it out Hawke, it only took nearly four years,” replied Varric.

“What… What do I do, Varric?” groaned Hawke. Whatever he’d been prepared to deal with during their drinking night, this was definitely not it and a sense of panic was starting to creep up on him.

“You’re going to go home, sleep your hangover off and consider this again with a clear head. And what you’re not going to do is something rash like march to Darktown right now, or something Hawke-esque and avoidant like pretending you have lost your memory of the evening,” Varric said and then added a sharp “again.”

Hawke nodded, once again the anxiety ebbing away at Varric’s steady words.

“Thank you, Varric,” he said, getting up. He made his way to the door and paused before it, turning to look back at his friend. “Do you think I have a chance? Of Anders liking me back?”

Varric looked at him for a moment, and then he started laughing. Hawke tilted his head, unsure whether he should be reassured, scared, or merely offended.

“Andraste, you really can’t see in front of your nose when it comes to this stuff, you’re as bad as the mage. I’d say you have more than a chance. In fact, I’ll promise you now that he does, I’ll shave my entire chest if I’m wrong,” swore Varric.

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “So you’d have me scorned _and_ also deprive me of the simple pleasure of staring at your beautifully hairy chest?”

“Piss off, Hawke,” Varric said with a smile.

Hawke waved over his shoulder and slipped out of the room. He took the steps to the main pub two at a time, and by the time he bid his quick goodnight to Corff and walked out into the night air he had a grin plastered across his face. He inhaled deeply, taking in Lowtown’s usual potpourri of garbage, piss, something metallic that could easily be blood and a faint sea breeze. He thought that maybe a romantic like Varric would say it smelled like potential.

* * *

“Rivaini, I was wondering what was taking so long. Almost worried you and Blondie actually got jumped,” said Varric, not turning from where he was pouring two glasses of something amber -his own stock, not Corff’s swivel- towards the figure entering through the window.

“You think so little of me, that I’d get caught with my pants down in Darktown?” Isabela’s voice was laced with mock-insult.

“You’d have to wear pants for that,” Varric retorted, handing her one of the glasses of Antivan brandy.

Isabela sniffed at the caramel liquid and raised an eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well, if things went as well at your end, we may soon see the end of Hawke’s and Blondie’s pining,” Varric said, raising his glass.

“I don’t know, it was fun to watch,” said Isabela, clinking her glass to his.

“You’re just pouting because it didn’t happen the way you’d guessed and you won’t be winning the bet,” said the dwarf.

“Neither of us is winning that bet now,” replied Isabela, “but I still think my idea was more likely.”

Varric tilted his head in contemplation. Before tonight he had thought Blondie seducing Hawke had been a wild bet to make, but it turned out she’d known a bit more about their grumpy healer than the rest of them. Still, he thought his version of Hawke jumping Blondie’s bones after a near miss with Templars was, if not more likely, rather poetic and romantic. The stuff of stories.

“Well, in light of the new developments, vis a vis how we had to push things along, thus killing a lot of the spontaneity, I think new bets are in order, hm?”

“I don’t know about killing the spontaneity, Hawke sure was _spontaneous_ tonight the way he ran his mouth, poor drunk Anders was convinced he hated him,” said Isabela.

Varric thought of Hawke’s various stages of kicked-puppy contrition for a moment. “They’ll get over it, they’re big boys. Now, bets?”

“You’re on,” Isabella said with a smirk.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, would love to let me know if you enjoy this sort of team centric-fic, or whether I should pick any threads up from here, knowing that this generally adheres to game canon.


End file.
